First Train Home
by i-am-your-opus
Summary: It's always a matter of time, with Santana. You've learned that lesson by now. You've always been waiting on her.


A/N: I mean. I'm sorry. I just. You know. Brittana.

Here's a drabble.

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/

It's always a matter of time, with Santana. You've learned that lesson by now.

You've always been waiting on her.

/

The first time you kissed, you were holding hands under the night sky. It was the third night that week Santana had shown up at your house in the dark when you were supposed to be asleep. That night, you waited for her near your window.

"I couldn't sleep," she explained with a smile the first night. You hadn't asked; you could always sense when something was wrong with your best friend.

You nodded, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the hammock in the back yard.

The past two nights she had laid down opposite you so that her head was near your toes. You didn't tell her that the way her head grazed your foot tickled you, because you liked how it felt for her to lean against you. Touches with Santana were always sweet, but teasingly brief. You wanted to wrap yourself in her, but you were lucky if she would give you a hug for more than a few seconds at a time.

That night, you got what you wanted.

You laid down first, because you were heavier and she could easily slip in next to you. She paused as she looked down on you, her fists clenching briefly before she moved to lay beside you. Except tonight, something was different– her weight wasn't settling smoothly into the hammock in the practiced manner it had the night before. Instead, she landed clumsily next to you, so close that you felt her nose practically brushing against your own. Her eyes locked onto yours as the two of you rocked back and forth in the hammock, swinging from the force of her fall.

Santana's body was tense, and you felt off balance because of it. You rolled onto your back, extending your arm so that it was just grazing the top of Santana's head. She didn't say anything, but the rocking of the hammock eased as she relaxed. You let a few minutes go by, getting caught up in the patterns the stars burned into the sky.

"Are you scared, Britt?"

You felt her shift a little closer to you.

"Of what?" you asked. Sure, there were lots of things you were afraid of. You always thought getting older would make you braver so you wouldn't have to be afraid of the monsters in the dark. And yeah, you could sleep without a night light those days, but that wasn't because you weren't still afraid of the dark. It's just that now, you knew that the real monsters weren't confined to dark corners or underneath your bed.

"I don't know. High school?"

You frowned. You had been hoping this hadn't been the reason for her awkwardness the past few weeks. Santana had always been too concerned for her reputation in your opinion. She obsessed over popularity. She had dated practically half the male student body that year — you didn't even want to imagine what she would do when she got to high school, where the number of candidates would quadruple.

"No," you answered shortly.

You felt her deflate next to you. "Oh."

You sighed. You didn't mean to hurt her feelings. It wasn't Santana's fault she was changing. You couldn't expect her to always be the perfect best friend from your childhood, you knew that. You were letting your feelings make you be unfair to her, and that wasn't right.

"Are you?" you offered in way of apology. She looked up at you, her eyes large. You didn't wait for her to answer. "Santana, you don't have to be afraid. Everyone's going to love you. We're going to be on the Cheerio's, and Quinn already knows who we should all date for maximum popularity. It's gonna be alright," you said, squeezing her.

"What if I don't want to date anyone?" she asked.

You held in a laugh at that, because your friend had been nothing but boy-crazy lately. It probably shouldn't had been driving you as nuts as it was, but you couldn't stand it. You felt disgusted every time she went out with a new guy, and it made you feel guilty as sin because who were you to judge Santana for dating? It was her life after all.

"Why wouldn't you?" you say.

"Please. I don't want to do it now," she sighed, pushing up so the crook of her neck met the curve of your arm. "I just… I have to, you know?"

You nodded, even though no, you didn't know, because the only guy you had dated was Matt Rutherford for two months in seventh grade. He was a sloppy kisser, but he could ice-skate really well and he liked the same stuff on his pizza as you did. Santana hated him, and you grew bored of him quickly.

You dumped him unceremoniously over the phone after not showing up to a date at Santana's direction. You felt horrible afterwards, but Santana told you it was just part of the healing process. You trusted her, because you figured she was an expert nowadays with the way she bounced from boy to boy.

Another few minutes pass by in silence, this time with you trying to count the number of sounds you could hear around you in the late August air.

"Hey Britt?" Santana interrupted the silence again. "When you and Ruth were dating… what did it feel like? You know, kissing and stuff?"

You shrugged. You didn't remember it too clearly. "Tingle-y at first, I guess," you explained. "But after the first few times that went away and all I could feel was how wet and gross it was."

"You think it's gross too?" she asked excitedly. "Thank god, I thought I was the only one. How overrated, right?

"Well— no, not gross, just…" you started, but stopped when you felt her sink against you. "The first few times… it felt kind of like magic. But like if you didn't know how to use it. And I just kept thinking, imagine what it would be like to kiss someone that meant something, you know? Like what it feels like to kiss someone you love. Then I think it'd really be magical."

She laughed. "Magic isn't real, Britt. But why else do you think I've been going around dating so many guys? I'm waiting to find a guy that can actually keep my attention."

She wrapped her hand in yours, laying it against your stomach. Her breath was landing on your neck and your pulse was rising to meet it, but you tried not to squirm beneath her.

"Every guy I go out with feels like a waste of time. Why be out on a date when I could be home with my best friend?" The last part of her sentence came out softer, and if she hadn't lost her bravado you would have probably let it slide. But something stirred inside of you, and you moved so your face was level with hers.

"If you like being with me more than those boys… what if you'd like kissing me more, too?"

Your chest felt empty after you said it, like speaking those words had used all the oxygen left in your body.

She was staring at you blankly, and you tried to remember if you had even said it loud enough for her to hear. Then she swallowed, her breath pulling in a near-silent gasp.

"Britt…" Her voice was even quieter than yours, but you didn't mind. Instead, you watched how her eyes slid down your face until they were staring at your mouth, the way that her lips slowly parted, how her breath started coming faster against your face.

You leaned in, your hand snaking around her head. Her hair was soft. You parted your lips against hers and her skin practically buzzed with yours.

And then, you waited.

Your lips were a centimeter apart.

You could feel her every breath, her lip trembling, the way her eyelashes were fluttering as her eyes tried to slam themselves shut.

But you weren't worried. You knew your best friend; you could feel the way her heart was racing, the way her hand was curling against your back. You wouldn't have to wait long, you knew.

It was only a matter of time.

And ever so slowly, you felt her rising to meet you.

/

One time, you got sick of waiting.

Maybe it was cruel.

Maybe it was wise.

Either way, you ended up dating Artie Abrams, and for the first time in a few years you didn't feel so miserable.

Okay, so you didn't feel the fireworks with him, but at least his kisses weren't sloppy and wet like Matt's. He was gentle and considerate. You liked his innocence and his eagerness. You were used to being ignored by Santana, and Artie's Call of Duty nights were nothing in comparison to the days on end Santana wouldn't acknowledge you when one of you would sleep with someone else.

She didn't mind that you were having sex with other people, you knew that. In fact, it had been her idea that the two of you should keep sleeping with boys. But still, every time she caught wind of you hooking up with a new guy she would avoid you for a few days. Even worse, whenever she fucked someone else she would avoid you for a week, and even after that passed she still wouldn't meet your eye until after you had slept together again.

Friendship with Santana was weird, but you weren't ready to think about that yet. The other night she told you that the sex with you meant nothing to her. You weren't surprised – she always wanted to turn the lights out when you had sex. The one time you had convinced her to fuck you with the lights on, she got you halfway undressed before she froze, running out of the room a few seconds later in only a bra. She avoided you for nearly three weeks that time.

You'd hoped and dreamed of the day she would tell you she secretly loved you back the whole time. But the more she insisted that you meant nothing, the more you tried to convince yourself that the same was true for you. You didn't need her to sneak into your room late at night for far less innocent purposes than she did years before. And you didn't need her to sing a stupid duet with you.

So you asked Artie to sing with you. You always liked how he could still dance better than the other boys even though he was only using half his body. Besides, he could sing well and you weren't too strong of a singer. You weren't punishing Santana.

Okay, maybe you were at first. But when you slept with him, Artie kept the lights on. His eyes never left yours the entire time. It started to feel… different.

It was only a matter of time then, too. Santana told you how she felt. Your plan had worked, and yet… you couldn't bring yourself to do anything about it. Somewhere along the line, you had begun to care for Artie. How were you supposed to hurt him when he was nothing but good to you, so that you could be with Santana, who didn't even know how to love herself?

/

You didn't like the way you had to hide your relationship with Santana. After fighting for so long to get her to love you, you wanted to wear it around your neck like a gold metal. Santana wouldn't let you, though. She had always been too concerned with her reputation in your opinion.

You were willing to wait, though. You waited for Santana, and she waited for you while you figured out your feelings for Artie. Now it was your turn to wait again.

So you ignored the napkin on top of your hand, the way she wouldn't even touch you in front of her parents, the way she'd only speak about her feelings for you only if she was absolutely sure no one else could hear. You ignored it, and you waited.

Except you didn't have to wait for long.

You'd never seen Santana so hurt as she was the night she showed up at your house after talking to her Abuela. She crumpled and you caught her, but ended up on the ground with her anyway. Santana always made herself as small as possible when she was upset. You wrapped around her, enveloping her.

You wish you had had to wait a little longer.

/

She had been singing all night. And damn did she look beautiful up there on that stage. But as much as you loved seeing her so happy, you wished she would hurry up and come dance with you.

It was senior prom after all, something you never thought you would get to share with her. Just a few months ago she wouldn't walk down the hallway with you. Now she was in the running for prom queen, with you as her king. You wanted to dance with your girlfriend.

You waited near the stage for her to finish, grabbing her hand as soon as her feet touched the ground.

"C'mon," you said. She squealed as you pulled he towards the dance floor.

Her arms wrapped around you, and you tried to ignore Finn's singing in the background. At least the song was was slow.

Your arms rested against her hips, your head leaned down to press against hers, and you smiled. This was what you had needed all along.

You remembered the night in the hammock, when Santana asked you if you were scared of high school. She'd been reminding you a lot of that scared, young Santana lately. She was so worried about what she was going to do after college, even though she had tried to hide it by talking about becoming rich and famous. You knew her better than that.

She was so scared. And you were too, this time, although it was for a completely different reason.

While Santana was terrified of moving on with her life, you were scared you weren't going to get to. You had failed your senior year of high school. You made up a million different excuses not to tell Santana yet, even using the fear you felt radiating off her the past few weeks. But the truth was, you were the one who was terrified. Santana was moving on.

You just hoped she would be willing to wait on you a little longer.

/

You knew the breakup was coming before Santana did, you think.

Santana had always been afraid. She'd always been timid. You weren't surprised when she decided she needed to end things with you. It wasn't anything you hadn't heard before. She didn't want to hurt you, she didn't want to get hurt. She was afraid for your friendship. These were the same things she used to tell you when she wouldn't admit to have feelings for you, and again when she didn't want to come out.

Santana's always been scared. Except this time, you were scared too.

Santana always made you happy. Nothing had made you happier than when she told you she loved you, or when she kissed you or even just smiled at you. Even before you were together, when she was being mean to you, you still felt insanely happy whenever you got to be with her. You were giddy. On cloud nine.

But now, you didn't get to be with her. You got to miss her, you got to love her, but none of the relief when you finally got to be with her. Long distance was draining. You grew tired. You found yourself making excuses not to text her or call her. Even when you Skyped it felt fake. Nothing was the same this time, and you were terrified.

So you waited for her to break up with you. You didn't fight her when she said you should end it.

Maybe she was right. You didn't want to risk your friendship. You just wanted to be happy again, and you didn't want to lose Santana. So you let her break up with you, and for a little while it felt okay.

Except when Santana visited next, she didn't look okay. She looked like she was in love with you, and it looked like it was killing her. You needed her to get over you, and you couldn't wait this time, not if she was in pain.

/

You dated Sam. It was easy and freeing, and he let you be silly in ways that you had forgotten how to. It made Santana angry, so angry, but it also made her stop texting you every day. She stopped calling. You thought you had gotten her to get over you, that you had given her that extra push, but she showed up a few weeks later with a fake girlfriend and a bone to pick.

You talked her out of starting a war with Sam. You told her he was treating you right, that you were happy, and that you still wanted to be her friend. You think that was all it took, just a little reassurance that you would still be in her life no matter what, because the next thing you knew, she was moving to New York to start her new life, and you didn't hear from her again until Sam staged an intervention.

/

You had been waiting, patiently, but all of a sudden there was no more waiting. Things were changing, and fast. You were getting into MIT. You were a genius. You were moving in a week to a city you'd never even been to, and you didn't know whether or not you could even call your best friend to tell her this. Was this the sort of thing you talked about? You hadn't spoken in so long that you weren't even sure.

So you freaked out.

And Sam, sweet Sam, called Santana. He wanted to help you, even if you had broken his heart. You felt terrible. You'd used him. But you'd done that a lot in the past, hadn't you? It wasn't anything new for you, something that felt awful to admit.

Santana didn't question you when you said you'd gotten into MIT. She smiled, as if to say she'd known it all along, but she didn't say anything. She couldn't, you understood that. It would have been too much, too personal, and since both of you were in danger of falling in love with the other again (though, who were you kidding, you still loved her), you had agreed to keep things as impersonal as possible.

You didn't say anything about her in the show circle. You hoped she didn't think it was because you were trying to be distant– it was the closest you had felt to her in a while. There were no words to describe your feelings for Santana – you had tried, many times.

Everything was changing and you had lost track of whose turn it was to wait.

/

She didn't call.

Not for Christmas. Not when Finn died. Not when she got the part of Rachel's understudy. You had to hear everything about her life through Kurt, who liked to pretend that you were interested in more than keeping tabs on Santana when he retold his tales of woe from Rachel and San's last fight.

He made them as dramatic as he could, but what you could tell is this: Santana wasn't happy.

It didn't matter that she was dating someone else, just like it didn't matter when you were dating Sam or Artie. You knew that. Still, you took her new relationship as a sign that you should get out of her life for a while, and you'd stopped sending her your monthly email updates after the last one had only earned a one line reply.

But you got on a plane to Ohio when the New Directions disbanded, if nothing more than for the hope that she would be there. And she was. You settled into your seat next to hers in the choir room, and after an awkward smile or two everything was back to normal.

Santana wasn't happy without you, and you weren't happy without her.

You made her wait in the choir room after one of your ridiculous group numbers that Mr. Schue had been putting on to try and cope with the fact that the club was ending. You kissed her, and for a second her lips parted against yours. You moved to deepen the kiss, but she took the break to pull back, gasping into your lips that it wasn't a good idea.

You backed off. You were never pushy with each other. You waited.

But this time, you needed her to know. So you told her. You told her you wanted her, that you would be good together. You tried to make her see that after all this time you could still have something, that your friendship and feelings were untainted. You didn't wait all this time for nothing, after all. Santana was your girl, and you needed her to know that. You belonged with her.

She didn't say anything, but that was okay. You always had to wait on Santana. She needed a little time to catch up sometimes, and you were okay with that.

"If you want me, I'm here," you told her as sincerely as you could. Your hand lingered on her leg, your eyes met hers and you saw her walls were already melting. But you backed off. You'd give her time to decide. You'd never minded waiting, not when you were always sure that you belonged with Santana.

/

It's getting later than you usually like to fall asleep, but being back in your old bed has felt weird and you haven't quiet adjusted yet. Last night you feel asleep just past two in the morning – tonight, you're aiming for midnight. But you laid down an hour ago, and with only an hour left you're pretty sure you're not going to make it.

But sure enough, your eyes soon start to drift close. Your thoughts become lazier, slowly passing through your mind so you can examine them one by one. You begin to sink into your bed when you hear it – a light tapping noise. You stir, and it comes again. Were you just dreaming, or…

You sit up, look towards the window, and smile.

You knew you wouldn't have to wait long.

/


End file.
